


Something Like Home

by DredPirateBones



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alex Summers knows what's up, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dead Babies: Sorry, Dubious Science, F/M, Found Family, Hank McCoy is So Done, I do not believe in sad endings, Kid Fic, Kinda, M/M, Rimming, not beta read we die like real men, test tube babies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:55:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28641075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DredPirateBones/pseuds/DredPirateBones
Summary: If he'd been given two thousand years to contemplate the various ways in which a mere blood sample could be used and abused, Hank knew he'd never be able to fathomthis."This is why no one lets you babysit." Alex hissed, shifting to mimic Darwin, letting the child in his lap snuggle closer to his chest."What? I'm a great babysitter." Sean said."Sure. Just not for infants or toddlers. You should come with an age limit," Darwin lifted a hand and used it to pantomime reading a billboard. " 'Great with kids ages 5 to 9. Teenagers and preteens: will scar. Toddlers and under: need not apply.' "
Relationships: Azazel/Raven | Mystique (X-Men), Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier, Hank McCoy/Alex Summers
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31





	1. I Can't Believe They've Done This

**Author's Note:**

> I am sorry if you've ever lost a child. That is a pain I have never known and hopefully the first section of this story won't be triggering but I'm putting this here as a warning anyway.

There was a certain philosophy that he liked to live by: never panic, react.

Only he didn’t know how to react to this.

He’d always had his photographic memory to fall back on--could dig some tiny factoid out of the depths and drop it into conversation. It bought him time to form an opinion. He’d had time to formulate some type of reaction, even if it’d only been to shuffle his feet or shrug. But now, he had _nothing._ He was blank.

There were four of them; two blues, one yellow, and one red. Small splotches of color amid the clinical whiteness of dispassionate sanitation. There was a sinister tremor in the air, found only in the depths of those deep, dark places that tickled and itched and screamed that no one was welcome to tread along such unholy ground. It was the type of heaviness that demanded emptiness. It would’ve been deafening if not for the sirens that assaulted his ears and the flashing emergency lights that washed everything in a terrible glow. He ignored it all; they weren’t for him anyway. They were for the security personnel whose corpses now lined these halls; whose ghosts had since fled, and whose blood now stained the linoleum floors.

He looked at the four of them--so small and helpless--numb to his aches and pains and wondered--somewhere in the scientific parts of his brain, the parts that never slept, the parts that were constantly taking notes, coming up with theories, and asking questions--why primary colors? Where were the natural browns and blondes, the blacks and mixes of grey? What made them so vibrant?

Some distant part of himself knew he was in shock, that he was beyond ‘panic' and 'react’, beyond the clean lines of rationality. Knew that he was in danger of shutting down and devolving into a creature that responded only to aggressive stimuli. But the thought seemed unimportant, nothing more than a wave that didn’t have enough force to make it over the breaker wall. He was floating outside of his own body and yet he felt like he was sinking deeper into the mire.

Despite it all, his gaze kept drifting back to Yellow and Red, drawn like a magnet to their unnatural stillness. At least that’s what his mind kept telling him: _unnatural, unnatural, they’ll move soon, you’ll see. Just keep watching, they’ll move._ But he knew they wouldn’t because their stillness wasn’t unnatural at all. Death was the most natural thing in the world. Even at a glance it was obvious that Yellow and Red had been gone for hours, but the flashing lights and his rampant denial worked together to trick him into seeing their chests move.

It was wrong.

Unfathomable.

Hank could see the potential energy in both of them. It was so strong; made it so easy to imagine their personalities and character quirks.

The little canary yellow one, laying on his back, eyes closed and mouth lax, would’ve been such a sweet kid. Mild mannered and easily pushed into the background with the kind of introvertedness that walked hand in hand with the tendency to keep one’s head down. To silently geek out and indulge an interest by yourself.

The red one was the smallest of them, his baby fur was trying its hardest to compensate for it, sticking up in all directions like a hedgehog after it's stuck its tongue in an electrical socket. With such perpetually raised hackles, it wasn’t hard to imagine him as a little spit fire. Easy to anger and slow to forgive, like a small dog that felt the need to bark the loudest and brawl the hardest.

He stared at them, sweat sticking his own fur to the lines of his spine, clumping it to his temples and at the back of his neck; his harsh panting sawed at his throat--the dry burning of it was in direct counterbalance to the absolute nothingness of the rest of him--catching on the broad lines of his vocal cords and dragging rumbling pseudo-growls from him. Some deep, bruised, part of himself was happy--relieved, even--that they died and lived in pairs; was finding some small measure of comfort that, wherever they were at least they weren’t alone in it. It was a cold comfort that didn’t help much, but it was a comfort that he burrowed into all the same.

Hank’s ears were ringing an annoying C sharp, the blood and viscera have been in his nose for so long that he couldn’t smell anything else anymore. The only reliable information his brain was processing, the only thing that still existed, that counted, that still had any meaning, was sight. He could see two dead bodies and two that yet lived. He couldn’t see any wounds or other indications of a second party’s influence. It seemed as though Yellow and Red had simply gone to sleep and forgotten to wake back up. Hank was left to the terrible assumption that their deaths were natural: could’ve been a defect, a low birth weight, maybe even SIDS.

His eyes tracked to the ID numbers on each plastic crib (1B-BS-MH, 2B-BS-MH, 1R-BS-MH, 1Y-BS-MH) before going back to the two blues. The cribs were Spartan and impersonal, much like any crib mass produced for the world’s hospitals, just a padded cradle. He could see that their little mouths were open--that they were crying, tiny feet kicking and flexing finger toes--but he couldn’t hear them. He stood at the foot of their cribs and could not hear their voices. It was as if his world had been put on mute if not for the ringing in his ears.

Hank had long since dissociated, he _knew_ it, but no matter how hard he tried to come back to himself, to this continent, to this mission, to this room, to this lab, he simply couldn’t find the will. Maybe he was being blocked by some deep seated survival instinct and maybe not. He wasn’t sure. The only thing he was sure about was that, in this moment, all of his observations were dispassionate, clinical and cold, and he hated it. These boys had been gazed upon by nothing _but_ a cold, clinical eye. As test subjects, labeled as ‘not human’. But even as Hank told himself to breathe, he couldn’t shut it out. It was worse than watching a train wreck, at least those were fast and vicious, but this dragged on into the mind numbing infinity of several moments.

His brain caught on the different pigmentations like a meat hook, wicked and designed to hold, sunk its teeth into it like a feral dog, and drug up Azazel, Mystique, and their son along for the ride. Four subjects, himself included, would never be enough for a concise and accurate test pool but it was all Hank had. He made due. Of the four “original” mutants with saturated skin pigmentations, three were blue, one was red. 1 to 3 ratio. 75% chance of being born blue.

“--east!”

But now there were five blues, two reds, and one yellow. Statistically speaking mutants born blue had a 100% survival rate, while individuals born red were 50/50. He couldn’t speak for those born yellow. Not enough data. He _shouldn’t_ be speaking for the others either but at least he had more than one data point for them. It was as good a place to start as any.

“B--st!---east!”

In mammals, there were two molecules that affected hair color; one for blond and red hues and another for the browns and blacks. In albinos, the lack of color usually walked hand-in-hand with other defects; hearing impairments, reduced viability, problems with depth perception and visual focus. In fact all albino mammals that had been studied had underdeveloped retinas. Human males were more susceptible to color-blindness because the defect rode on the ‘X’ chromosome. So maybe that was it. Perhaps the coloring was an indication of a deeper mutation--a defect that was responsible for the life or death of the individual.

“Hank!”

But it was also an astronomically unbalanced ratio between the sexes: seven males to one female, which brought up a completely different question, albeit a related one even if not strictly relevant. Did gender help dictate mutations? Would Kurt have been a shape shifter if he’d been born female? Would he still have a tail? Which parent could pass on the X-gene? Both? Only one? He should look into that. Might prove useful somewhere down the line. Not right now though.

If he’d been given two thousand years to contemplate the various ways a mere blood sample could be used and abused, Hank knew he'd never be able to fathom _this._ Life was...maybe not sacred but it wasn’t something to play god with; these scientists could’ve just as easily started a garden if that’s what they wanted.

When he'd first started working for the CIA, they'd told him it was part of his background check, to make sure he didn’t have anything transmutable. It’d come back clean.

But he also remembered giving them three vials. Someone had gotten a hold of his blood work, knew what they were looking at, and then sold at least one vial. The implication that the mutant gene had been discovered before mutants discovered themselves was extremely troubling. It was impossible for him to say how many hands it switched before it ended up here: in a privately funded facility. He wasn’t sure what they were trying to accomplish. If they wanted to use his blood for medical purposes they wouldn’t need to nurture an embryo into full infanthood to do it--let alone four.

The...research material...to be found inside an infant spoke of something else. Spoke of a darker road that he didn't want to follow.

Erik, Hank mused, was going to be over the dark side of the moon about it all, if only because it gave him more ground to stand on in his ‘us against them’ mentality.

The blow landed across his face.

Suddenly Hank wasn’t looking at two dead bodies anymore but at the wall. The small insignificant details jumped out at him as obviously as if there was a page missing from his favorite book. The drywall had been painted white, like the rest of the room, and would’ve been perfect if not for the streaks in the paint or the dust along the bottom. When he turned back Alex looked frazzled, blond hair sticking up at odd angles, a light sheen of sweat across his face. Elevated breathing. Pupil dilation present; fight or flight stress response.

“Hank, breathe. I need you to breathe, okay? I need you to come back. Yeah, just like that. Good. That’s real good, Hank. Just breathe.” Alex was petting along Hank’s arm, elbow to wrist, over and over again. It rose gooseflesh each time Alex brushed his fur the wrong way, tightening the skin and making the fur stand on end. Hank wasn’t sure he would’ve noticed if it wasn’t a unique type of uncomfortable--a special sort of disgusting, like nails on a chalkboard.

“Alex.” One side of Hank’s face stung, growing warm and then hot as blood rushed to the abused skin. The emergency lights were still flashing but the sirens had been turned off, casting the natural curvature of Alex’s face into deep shadows and harsh highlights; it sunk his eyes into his skull, and accentuated his sharp jawline. A living corpse that couldn’t decide if it wanted to have skin or not.

Hank forced himself away from such macabre thoughts and focused on the dark wash of Alex’s suit, the raised lines of the embedded wires amassing in a circle on his chest like veins. He didn’t need the chest plate anymore but Hank had put its skeleton there to prevent him from burning a hole in his suit. There were more embedded wires along his wrists and ankles allowing him to direct his plasma rings from his arms and legs as needed.

The Brotherhood didn’t have the same strict uniform as the X-Men, everyone was encouraged to make their own adjustments and add their own brand of flair if they wanted; to personalize their suites to better enhance their own unique fighting style and complement their mutations. Somehow they’ve managed to look like a cohesive unit regardless, decked out in black and muted colors. Perfect for sneaking around in the dark or blending into a crowd.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s me.”

He was stained with the sins of his claws; human blood caked and matted into the fur, and drying in the lines of his palms. It was splattered along the front of his suit, chest to knee, from when he’d been pinned on his back and forced to use the claws on his feet to gut a man. He’d opened as easy as velcro.

“I...I can’t.” He croaked.

“Hank?”

“I can’t do it. I can’t pick them up.” Hank could deadlift 2 tons and yet he couldn’t bring himself to lay hands on his own sons. There was no need for an infant to have viscera smeared into their skin, tacky and liable to clump fur. Alex’s eyes flicked down to Hank’s hands, taking in the state of them, and gave his forearm a tight squeeze before letting go, turning to 1B.

“Hey, kiddo. What do you say we blow this joint, huh?” Alex picked him up with a gentleness rarely seen from him and kept up a running litany of nonsense as he tucked the child close. Hank wasn’t sure if he was talking to keep himself calm or if he was trying to keep Hank’s mind from floating away again. Or maybe Alex did it because that was what you did when you held a crying child; talked to them.

1B was a deeper blue than his brother, almost identical to Hank, with a broad nose bridge. 2B leaned more towards a blue zircon with a more feline face that would develop into something...almost delicate. For a moment Hank despaired for the ‘pretty boy’ comments he was sure to hear later in life. The boys were two bright spots of color against the darkness of Alex’s suit as he held them, keeping his back to the other cribs, deliberately not looking at them. It was a balm, easing something in Hank’s lizard brain to see them there, safe and protected and finally settling down; no longer kicking and screaming, though they still looked unhappy with the world in general.

Hank couldn’t blame them, he was unhappy with the world right now too. And it hurt that he couldn’t do anything about it, that he was standing _right here_ and they were _right there_ and he couldn’t bring himself to do anything. The only thing he could do was...well.

Suddenly he had an almost violent need to see their lab reports, needed to check if they’d been mixed with other mutated cells or if the scientists had found a human egg donor. Needed to see the extent of the damage. He was out the door and down the hall before he could analyze the consequences of breaking from his assignment, of disobeying Magneto. In that moment Beast gave the exact square root of fuck all.

“What are you--Where are you going?” Alex asked, scrambling to keep pace as Hank marched deeper into the facility, forcing locked doors open and taking a few off their hinges with the force of his unchecked strength. “ _What_ are you looking for?”

“Files. Lab reports. Blood work. Test results. Observational notes. I want it. I want all of it.”

Alex had the good graces not to remind Hank that Mystique had already been assigned that particular task as he followed along, wisely trailing a few paces behind. Hank’s longer stride ate the distance as if it was inconsequential, for every two steps he took, Alex took five.

They finally found it, several hallways down and about a dozen destroyed doors later. Mystique was wrist deep in a filing cabinet but whirled around, graceful and lethal as a cat, ready for a fight, when they came storming in. Her yellow eyes flicked over to Hank and then to Alex, where she did a double take before they widened.

“Oh, _shit._ ” She said, hurrying over to Alex to take 2B from him. 2B didn’t fight when new hands took him, tucking him in close and bouncing him. Something powerful and feral in Hank took great exception to her daring, lips curling away from his fangs, hackles raising. He forcibly pushed it aside and stepped in to take Mystique’s place at the cabinets. There was too much adrenaline in his system, it made him clumsy and liable to rip the fragile paper. It forced him to slow down, to calm himself, to regain control of himself.

By some virtue of the powers that be, he kept it, even when his fingers landed on the files for the dead cubs. Only to lose it again like lost air from an abused lung when he turned. There, sitting innocently on the floor, was a backpack, already half stuffed with files. There wasn’t anything special about it, just a standard backpack with elegant lines that looked more like an enlarged purse than anything else. In fact, Hank wouldn’t have thought anything of it if not for the name written on the tag.

Miranda Fox.

Somewhere in his hippocampus swam a memory of a lab assistant. Miranda wasn’t beautiful nor was she handsome just as she wasn’t elegant but nor could she be called ugly. She was, quite simply, a plain woman with plain hair and plain style of dress. She’d been able to blend into the background as easily as a wall.

The Brotherhood’s adage wasn’t something they had written down or memorized but it called for a certain allowance of blood, so long as it didn’t topple over the edge into an outright slaughter. Hank had found it easy to follow, killing only in self-defense over and over again, shouldered the weight of taking a life even though it never got any easier, he’d just learned how to not hesitate but now, now he wanted to go so far past the usual definition of ‘slaughter’ that it would collide into the realms of ‘butcher’.

* * *

Erik had long since familiarized himself with each piece of metal on his teams’ suits. Long since tucked the sensation of zinc and stainless steel, aluminum and nickel away into the deep recesses of his mind. It was the only reason why he knew Beast was coming towards them at speed. Bouncing along the corridors as he jumped from wall to wall--too much momentum to take the corners--touching down before leaping up the stairwell, doors crumpling under the force of his charge like confetti paper.

Frowning, Erik cast his senses back towards the labs to search for Havok only to find him missing. Thankfully he finds him further back with Mystique, keeping pace with her, even as they trail so pathetically behind Beast, following in his destructive wake.

The humans--biologists, geneticists, biochemists--that the Brotherhood have corralled kneel or otherwise sit leaning against the walls while Tempest and Sabertooth stood guard. Erik was only making the rounds, making sure everything was as it should be, that everyone was where they needed to be. The plan had been to go check in with Mystique and then Havok and Beast after Sabertooth and Tempest. But, it looked like that plan had just taken a shot to the foot; something was wrong. There was no other explanation.

Sabertooth cocked his head, listening, before a slow and feral grin spread across his face, sharp teeth glinting.

“Ooooh,” he purred, eyes roaming along the humans, slow and predatory, “You’ve pissed off Big Blue.”

An enraged roar echoed off the empty hallways, faint but growing louder. It spoke more to Beast’s speed than how powerful his lungs were that they could hear him. It made the humans shuffle and whisper amongst themselves uneasily.

Tempest’s eyes flicked to Erik but he shook his head and swung the door open just in time for Beast to come flying in in a blur of blue and black. Roaring fit to challenge a god, and launched himself at a woman near the back wall. Leaping clear over the humans in his way. Beast took her down hard enough that she screamed; pinning her to the floor with yellow eyes blazing with a fury hitherto unknown to man nor mutant.

“Hello, Fox.” He snarled, snapping his teeth hard enough to nearly bite the last syllable in half.

“McCoy?!” Fox squeaked, somehow finding room between Beast’s bulk and the tile to shrink further back.

“How much?”

“How--how much what?”

“The blood.”

“I...I don’t know what you’re talking abou--!” Beast roared in her face, let her get up close and personal with his teeth. When it tapered off, Beast hauled her up to slam her against the wall. One massive paw pinned her head while the other remained tangled in her shirt.

“Spare me your denials! You know exactly what I’m talking about and we both know it. So here’s what I think happened, after they took my blood your game was to steal whatever was left, sell it, keep track of it, and then put in a resume with whoever ended up with it. Clever. You get paid twice and still get to play in the sandbox of genetics. Sound about right? So, I’ll ask again: how much blood did you get?”

“All of it.” Fox said.

Beast went still, dangerously so, like how the world stilled before a calamity, “All of it?” he asked. His voice suddenly lacked the rougher undertones and that, more than anything, told Erik how hard he was fighting against his more animal tendencies. How much effort he was putting into not falling apart. How close he was to losing.

“Your test results were faked. I only told the CIA what they wanted to hear.”

“Who else did you sell to?”

“McCoy, you don’t understand! Think about it for one goddamn minute! Everything we could discover--the strides we could make in modern medicine!” That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Beast snarled, low and threatening, monstrous enough that Erik was forced to suppress a shiver.

_Liar_ , it said. Fox started struggling, crying and pawing at Beast’s arms, squirming in place like a butterfly stuck to a cork board. The drywall behind her head cracked and splintered. “No one! I kept a vial for myself and sold the other two as a packaged deal!”

“Did you weep for them when they died?” Beast asked.

“What?”

“Did. You. Mourn for them?” Fox’s eyebrows knit together, mouth working like a silent fish for a beat. Two. Beast scowled and added a little more pressure, fingers digging into Fox’s face. She yelped and fought harder. Erik watched, morbidly fascinated, as Beast’s arm started shaking as he added more and more pressure until Fox started screaming. It was almost enough to drown out the horrible wet crunching sound. It lasted for several moments but then, suddenly, her skull caved in with a sickening ‘pop’.

All that was left of her head was splattered gore and large chunks of bone. Her corpse dropped to the ground amid horrified gasps and high pitched shrieks. Tempest was not the only one to turn away to vomit.

“Coat.” Beast said, directed at Sabertooth. He held out his cleaner hand expectantly. It wasn’t a request and it wasn’t an order. It was simply a statement of fact that Sabertooth was going to give up his coat. It might’ve been the weird rotating Alpha deal that the more feral mutants had or maybe it was the sudden show of strength and violence--Erik wasn’t sure--but either way, Sabertooth shrugged his trench coat off without a fight. Even lowered his eyes when he handed it over.

Then Beast was out the door, gone as quickly as he’d come.

Erik followed him out. That confrontation had been personal. Fox had hurt Beast intentionally, had found a weak spot and knifed him. Of that, Erik was certain. How she’d done it with just two vials of blood...well, he wasn’t a simpleton. Even off his warpath, Beast kept a quick clip, fur still on end, as he retraced his steps.

“How many survived?” Erik asked. He’s never allowed himself to turn away, never allowed himself the coward’s luxury of a blind eye to the world’s cruelty, and he won’t start now. Not ever. His fingers were already at his cape, tugging it off, and folding it into a more manageable length by the time Beast found his voice.

“Two.”

Too few. Erik scowled. Was nothing sacred!? He reached for the metal behind him, rage burning his blood hot and ready to ignite, hands clenching into tight fists. It jumped to his command and finished what Beast started. Then he reached out to the last member of their team, feeling for the multitude of earrings--bright spots of surgical steel--surrounded by computer banks and gently tugged. Nonsense, as always, was quick to respond. She dropped a panel out of the ceiling. For a moment Erik was disoriented as she lowered her head down; earrings above him yet her belt, boots, and pocket change remained on the opposite side of the vast building. It was extremely disconcerting to essentially feel someone cut themselves in half.

Like watching a demented magic trick.

“Prep the jet for take off.” Erik barked.

“Sure.”

They found Havok and Mystique in the stairwell, panting but still climbing, echoing in the strange acoustics that characterized all industrial stairwells. The first glimpse of Beast’s sons felt like a kick to the guts. Not because they were blue and fluffy but because of how small and completely helpless they were. Utterly dependent on the people around them. With an effort of will, he pushed the rage aside--balanced it out with serenity, with thoughts of his mother, of Anya--and took the child from Mystique. Despite the years he still knew how to swaddle an infant without the aid of a flat surface. It helped that the boy didn’t fight him. He simply lay there, limp and docile, like a ragdoll.

Havok did his best with the trench coat.


	2. Learn to Swim or You Will Drown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so comes the end of everything that I had prewritten before I posted the first chapter. Only took me a month to edit it, so I'll probably take even longer to get the other chapters out -.-

He had the water turned up as hot as he could stand it and then a little hotter. Scalding wasn’t the word for it. Searing, maybe. Paradoxical cold. Caused when the current stimulus to the skin’s hot receptors was intense enough to skip over the pain receptors and stimulate the cold receptors, allowing all three to be felt simultaneously. Before the serum, Hank would’ve spared a passing thought to the burns--that famous lobster red--that he was turning, but, now, he didn’t. His fur did a decent rendition of a shield and his skin had thickened and while he still felt the heat, it no longer burned him.

Not in any lasting way, at least. Not in any way that mattered.

The dried blood, brown and organ black, had been strangely beautiful to watch as it swirled down the drain, mixing with the soap foam and running like a ruined watercolor. Dark to light and then, finally, the water cleared yet Hank remained in the shower, trying to breathe through the thick humidity. His head was bowed, though not in penance--he had nothing to apologize for--but because he was still blank. Blissfully blank. Shields gone. Or, more accurately, he was blank _again_ ; sunken so deeply into the void that Charles touched his mind in a state of alarm.

Hank let him wrap his mind in a blanket of comfort and warmth, like the world’s best hug; full of protective affection and checked monsters under the bed and hot chocolate and bedtime stories, before Hank nudged him off and away. He was fine. 

Totally. 

Completely. 

Everything was fine. 

He wasn’t though, not really, and he knew it. This new blankness could be blamed on the shower, mostly. His mind had the typical meditative nothingness that seemed to characterize all good showers but it allowed the wilder portions of his psyche a stronger foothold. It prowled the edges, ready and willing to drag him under to make room for itself. 

He wasn’t fine. If he was, he wouldn’t be standing in the shower letting the steam and heat build up just because he knew it would make him dizzy. Intentionally inducing mild heat exhaustion was not the mark of a person who was fine.

* * *

“Luke.” Sean said, looking like he was in baby heaven with the tropical blue Beastling in his lap; confiscated from Mystique the moment she was done dressing him in some of Kurt’s old pajamas, loudly proclaiming his right as uncle to feed and hold him. Alex wasn’t surprised, he’d done the exact same thing to Kurt. Stolen him at every opportunity. Sean had almost lost a finger to Azazel for it, once, when he’d lifted Kurt off the man’s chest during nap time. And who was Alex to tell Sean what hills he could and could not die on? Though part of him wondered if it was a Sean Cassidy thing or an Irish Catholic thing.

Either way, he needed to find himself a nice girl and start having baby Banshees. Six of them, maybe then his baby craze would mellow down. Probably not.

Sean hasn’t stopped playing with the Beastling since he’d taken him. The poor ball of fluff clearly wanted to be dead to the world--far away in the land of dreams where everything was amazing and whimsical--but each time he stopped moving, Sean would pet him or play with his hand feet or otherwise poke him into wakefulness again. Apparently taking a flying paw to the face and a high pitched cry of exhausted frustration wasn’t enough to deter a man who could scream at even higher pitches.

Thank god the Beastling didn’t have any sharp pointy bits yet otherwise Sean wouldn’t have a face, Alex was certain. He’d seen what Hank’s claws could do--even kept dull as was his wont--they were more dangerous than any girl’s nails. Besides, baby animals tended to have needles for fingertips and knives for teeth and Alex doubted these two would be much different.

“Cassidy,” he said, reaching around the other Beastling--asleep, because Alex wasn’t a monster--to grab the spoon out of his empty bowl and brandished it threateningly, “this is going up your ass if you try to get Beast to name his son after Skywalker.”

“What’s wrong with Skywalker?”

“He’s a tool and I’m not letting these kids be named after a fictional character.” 

“Oh, really, Aleksandra?”

“First off; yeah, exactly! Why do you think I’m not letting this happen? Secondly; it’s ‘Alexander’ and you know it. Thirdly.” Alex flipped Sean the middle finger. 

Drunk Personal History had been the worst idea any of them had ever had. It’d been akin to the world’s worst, most painful, game of Truth or Dare. Except there was no ‘dare’ option to hide behind and everyone was three sheets to the wind; baring their secret shames to the world via word vomit. Alex had grit his teeth and willed down an embarrassed blush when he’d had to own up to the fact that he’d been named after Aleksandra Billewicz, the lead female protagonist in a historical fiction series. It hadn’t helped that Janos, of all people, knew where the character came from and promptly threw Alex further under that bus. The next week _With Fire and Sword, Deluge,_ and _Fire in the Steppe_ by Henryk Sienkiewcz was added to the mansion’s library.

Naturally, no one took credit for it.

Across from him, Charles was going through the stolen files, loose pages spread haphazardly across the table; organized in a way only he understood. Clarity unto itself. Darwin had come in some time afterwards. He’d taken one look at them all, eyes catching on the dirty suit Alex hadn’t taken off and offered to take the Beastling for a bit; let him take a shower, get changed, eat something hot, maybe go to bed like everyone else who’d gone on the Brotherhood operation. Even Erik had found a pillow, though that probably had more to do with Charles' influence then any actual need for rest.

Alex had told him to go fuck himself.

Darwin hadn’t been there, he didn’t understand what it felt like to see Hank catatonic like that. He hadn’t been there to hear the _god awful_ hollowness in Hank’s voice--haunted and bleak. Drowning. Darwin hadn’t been there to see the other cribs. Alex didn’t know how long Hank had been standing there, staring at them, but he knew he wasn’t okay. He was the farthest thing from it and he _needed_ Alex to look after his Beastlings. 

He didn’t care if it was the tail end of 2 A.M. Alex wasn’t going to hand over his Beastling to anyone. In all honesty, they were the only things keeping Alex from going after Hank. For being so small, it always surprised him how heavy an infant could feel. A solid weight that could hold someone down better than an anchor to a ship.

Thankfully, Darwin had only smiled at him in that soft understanding way of his and set a bowl of stew in front of him before he’d let himself be enlisted to help Charles. In the ensuing silence, Sean lasted longer than Alex would’ve given him credit for. It still didn’t take him long before he was workshopping names for the Beastlings.

“Troy.” Sean said, eyes bright like he’d had an epiphany.

“Troy McCoy?” Alex deadpanned.

“Zachary. Adrian.”

Alex traded the spoon for a pen and wrote ‘Zachary’ on his hand, fingers curled into a fist to keep the skin taut, “Keep going.”

“Jeremiah.”

“Beast isn’t religious.”

“It’s not a religious name.”

“It is, actually,” Charles said, “It’s the name of a Hebrew prophet. But if we were going to concern ourselves with the origin of the name, then we’d be arguing over it for the remainder of the night. For instance, ‘Erik’ is derived from the Old Norse ‘Eirìkr’ meaning ‘eternal ruler.’ Come to think of it, most names have quite the grandiose meaning. ‘Sean’ meaning ‘God is gracious’. ‘Armando’ meaning ‘soldier’. And ‘Alexander’ meaning ‘defender, protector of man.’”

“Please, don’t ever tell Erik any of that. Cat’s batshit enough as it is.” Darwin said.

Sean ran his fingers the wrong way through the Beastling’s fur, talking over his pitiful little squeaks, “Fine. Hector, then.”

“Jamie.” Darwin said. 

“You mean James?” Alex asked.

“No,” Darwin’s eyes flicked up and then back down. He was doing his best with the files but there was only so much an untrained eye could see and it showed with how long it took him to skim each page, “Jamie.”

“Vetoed.”

“Goddamn, Summers, you’re picky. Jerome. Neil. Seth. Ian.”

“Jerome?” Alex squinted at Darwin, “do they look black to you?”

“Well, they certainly don’t look like white boys.”

“I like Neil and Ian.” Sean said. 

Alex wrote them down, “Okay,” he said, “so far we’ve got Wesley, Micheal, Alan, Vincent, Zachary, Neil, and Ian.”

“You forgot Luke.” 

“There is no Luke. There will never be a Luke.”

For a moment, Sean pouted. But then, “What about philosophers and other people like that? I mean, if we’re throwing out Jeremiah because Hank’s not religious then shouldn’t we, y’know, come up with names from people he admires?”

“That’s a good idea,” Darwin said, “you know any?” 

Alex sat back and thought about it, tried to remember the last time Hank had talked about philosophy and came up with nothing. He racked his brains for any instance--any at all--in which he talked about a new discovery made by the community, and came up with even less. There was a wound in his chest, made by the broken promises that each foster parent gave him, carved deeper every time he’d been abandoned, and scarred over--healed, he’d thought--by the family he’d found here, at the manson. His fathers, his brothers, his sisters. It felt a lot like being on the receiving end of someone else’s failure. It ached, suddenly; for Hank. 

Alex looked to Sean but he looked just as lost, staring at nothing. And then Sean looked to Alex. The horrifying realization dawned in the same way a room filled with water or in the same manner that a victim knew they were dying. The silence was very telling; they didn’t know. They _knew_ Hank--his quirks, his tastes in music, his sense of style, what the different pitches of his growls meant, that he was more likely to purr if he was half-asleep, how he liked his coffee--however, his research and scientific journals had never come up. 

It was difficult to slip those kinds of things into everyday conversation. Even, apparently, with Charles, who’s pinched frown was plain as day.

“Damn.” Sean sighed. The next silence was short lived, lasting only as long as it took Sean to realize that there was an absence of baby noise. Alex’s eye twitched as Sean poked the Beastling awake. Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough time to chuck something heavy at his head between the Beastling finally having enough and letting them know about it; wailing at the tops of his little lungs and waking his brother. Alex’s Beastling came awake like he’d had a nightmare, jolting and screaming, crying and flailing.

Charles sighed with the weight of the world, looking to the heavens for strength--or mercy, maybe both--before forcibly taking the Beastling from Sean to gently pass him off to Darwin. There was a wave of telepathic _warmth, safety, home_ that brushed against Alex’s shields. Shields that promptly render the feelings null and void, numb, a silent force, as Charles sent the room a general pulse. The Beastlings’ cries pittered off and then abruptly died. Alex’s Beastling snuffled, kicked once more, and then let his body go limp. Strings cut.

Darwin readily settled the Beastling against his chest with an ease of one who has done it before, running a soothing hand along his back and slouching into the chair so that he was somewhat reclined.

“This is why no one lets you babysit.” Alex hissed, shifting to mimic Darwin, letting the child in his lap snuggle closer to his chest.

“What? I’m a great babysitter.” Sean said.

“Sure. Just not for infants or toddlers. You should come with an age limit,” Darwin lifted a hand and used it to pantomime reading a billboard. “‘Great with kids ages 5 to 9. Teenagers and preteens: will scar. Toddlers and under: need not apply.’“

“Yes and on that note,” Charles said, voice rising a little bit to head off Sean’s comeback, eyes still fixed on the file in his hand, “this report was dated about four months ago. _‘Subject 1R-BS-MH was taken out of the artificial womb at 13:00 this afternoon. Subject displays healthy growth in accordance with gathered data_ .’” Charles’ lips pursed, eyes narrowing, “I don’t care for the sound of that. _‘Gathered data_.’” his hands were urgent yet precise as he rifled through the files again.

With a clean flick of his wrist, Sean ripped the report from Charles’ unresisting fingers, using it as a template to compare against in the search for others identical to it. Alex tightened his hold on the Beastling. There was a small part of him that had been hoping that those fuckers hadn’t made more than the four they’d found but he’d been living with two scientists for five years. He knew better by now. His hope died a very unceremonious death, taken out back behind the chemical sheds that Alex dumped his unwanted memories into, and shot. Simply there one moment and gone the next. 

Poof, shows over. 

Sean swore as only the Irish could: colorfully and long winded, three pages already in hand. He stood to reach for the files in the middle of the table, “How many were there? The hell does ‘MH’ stand for? It’s the only thing that doesn’t change.”

“McCoy, Hank,” Charles said through gritted teeth, “they knew damn well who’s blood they were using.”

Darwin’s eyes have gone hard, his hand coming up to cup the Beastling’s head protectively.

“1B-BV-MH, 1R-BV-MH, 1R-RE-MH, 1Y-RE-MH, 1B-RE-MH, 2B-BV-MH, and 3B-BV-MH.” Sean read off with a grimace, “the dates for BV are older than RE.” he handed the reports off to Charles. The Professor reordered them so that BV and RE didn’t intersect, then put them at the bottom of his own stack, keeping his finger between them so that he didn’t read Sean’s stack a second time.

“1Y-ML-MH, 2Y-ML-MH, 1G-RE-MH, 1B-ML-MH, and 2B-ML-MH,” Charles said, “Plus the reports on 1B-BS-MH, 2B-BS-MH, 1R-BS-MH, and 1Y-BS-MH.”

“Egg donors.” Hank said from the door. The sound of his voice almost made Alex jump out of his skin. Only the warm weight of the Beastling stopped him from actually doing it, held him down so all he managed was a full body flinch as he turned around to face Hank. For a man of his size, Hank was surprisingly silent when he moved, even on the rare occasions when he wore shoes. Sean had threatened to put a bell on him on several occasions. And, honestly, Alex was still waiting for the day when he came home to find Hank had been strong-armed into wearing a cat collar. “The middle sequence. If the last sequence is me, then we can safely assume that the middle is the egg donors, and the first sequence indicates what color each child was and how many of that color were present in each batch. Four batches, four eggs, sixteen kids.”

He still sounded like there was a void in him, yawning and cavernous, so dark that not even a flood light could guide him out. He looked better, clean, shirt tucked in, as always, fur left to dry as it pleased, black rimmed glasses perched on his nose. But seeing him as his usual put together self drew attention to the new weight hanging around his shoulders and the haunted darkness worming it’s way into his eyes. It looked cancerous, a thing that would eat at him, slowly, painfully, and Alex wanted it _gone._

Those eyes lower to the Beastling in Alex’s lap before jumping to the one in Darwin’s and sticking there. His fur bristled before smoothing out again. To the untrained eye, it could’ve been a shrug, but Alex had spent more time than was healthy watching and relearning Hank after his transformation. There was a uniquely dangerous air to that sort of bristling. Aborted violence. A fist held back. Alex knew because he’d seen it before--mostly directed at _him_. 

After Cuba, Hank had tried to create a serum that would turn him back into that dorky little pink-faced boy, and Alex had been at loose ends. He’d gone into Hank’s lab at every opportunity, not necessarily to mess with him, but to spend time with him. To help in whatever way he could to beat the self-consciousness out of him via poking, prodding, and merciless teasing. He’s man enough to admit that half the fun came from riling him up. Tried to prove that he didn't care about the new face--wasn’t afraid of him when he gnashed his teeth. Mostly he’d made a nuisance of himself, mixing different substances just to see if they’d explode and subsequently ruined all of Hank’s hard work.

_“Alex!” Hank had snarled, teeth bared, and fur on end before it smoothed back down with noticeable effort, “ruin another one and I will turn_ you _into my next experiment!”_

_“You don’t have the balls!”_

Between almost burning his bridges with Hank and trying to rebuild them out of something stronger, like the world’s shittiest alchemist, he’d gotten to know that bristling shrug quite intimately. In the following months, he’d kept the tradition of destroying each variation of the serum before surrendering himself to Hank’s tender mercies. It was a very reliable indication that Hank was angry enough to take someone’s teeth. 

And it’d just been directed at Darwin.

Darwin, who dipped his chin to gesture to the Beastling in his arms, “You ready to take him or do you want me to keep him for a bit longer?”

“Was there really a green one?” Hank asked, giving no indication that he heard him, making no move to take the Beastling. It sounded like he was asking for confirmation on a data set instead of asking about one of his sixteen test-tube babies. 

“Yes, Hank,” Charles said on the end of a sigh. In contrast to Hank, the Professor’s voice was soft and gentle, softening a blow, “Yes, it appears so.”

Hank nodded, short and sharp, then stepped forward to take the Beastling from Darwin. He stooped down to take the one off Alex on his way out; dragging his nose along the shell of Alex’s ear as he straightened back up, breathing him in.

And then Hank was gone. 

* * *

He was going to lose to Beast. 

That quick sip of Alex’s scent told him as much; it hadn’t registered as _‘Alex Summers, boyfriend’_ but as _‘mate, home, safety_ ’. It was only a matter of time, now. But before that happened he needed to get the boys to his room and then get himself down to the lab. Losing to Beast wasn’t the same as Dr. Jekyll vs. Mr. Hyde, he wasn’t going to lose himself--just his impulse control. See the world through a different lens, where consequences became inconsequential, where emotion was the same as action. But, even so, he wanted to be in an environment where he didn’t have the option of doing anything he’d regret. Banish the devil from his shoulder before it could be summoned, so to speak.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about experiencing so many different mental states in one night. On one hand, he understood why it was happening; stress and combat trauma which led to Beast grabbing hold of Hank. But on the other, it felt like a creeping sickness, like he was losing control of something more monumental than his life. 

He couldn’t push it away, not completely, but he could hold it at bay for a time. After that, he just needed to ride it out.

Hank put the boys in the center of his bed, quickly untucking the comforter and sheets from the mattress, and rolled the loose edges into nest walls. The pillows followed suit, propping the sides higher to keep them from rolling over and out. But it wasn’t enough, so Hank grabbed whatever extra blanket he could think to grab and added those too. But, it still looked wrong. Hank frowned at the nest, quickly growing frustrated with it, then did a double take. 

The boys had gravitated towards each other, sides pressed together. Cuddling. Touching.

Their small prehensile feet clutching at the other, tangling in the fabric of their pajamas. Their heads were turned, faces close, breathing the same air. Hank blinked once. Twice. And then it dawned, not like the sun dawned, but like the existence of a wall dawned only after you’d clipped your shoulder on it. This was probably the first time in their short lives that they’d been allowed to touch each other. He watched them and wondered if they had a slight case of touch starvation. Wondered if they’d cry if something was wrong or if they needed anything--hoped they would--but couldn’t deny that being treated as a test subject might’ve taught them that crying was futile.

Hank leaned down to brush his nose against their cheeks. Nostrils flaring as he scented them. Ears pricked forward to listen to them. He could smell Mystique, Sean, and Darwin lingering on the lighter cub. His chest rumbled with a protective growl. How dare they? He’d not given them permission to touch what was his. Mystique, he could forgive, his mate had needed help at the time, but Sean and Darwin needed to watch themselves. 

His little one yawned, but didn’t stir. He wasn’t sure what prompted him to do it but Hank found himself giving the cub’s forehead a single lick. Rubbing his cheek along his body to bury the unwelcomed scents beneath his own. When he was satisfied, he did the same to the darker cub, noting that this one smelled only of his mate. Logically, he knew Alex wouldn’t let anyone take their cub from him but it was nice to have confirmation.

Hank jolted and reared back. For one horrified moment all he could do was stand there. Then the moment ended and Hank was left groaning, rubbing at his eyes. He could not believe that’d happened, that he’d slipped so close to Beast without realizing it until it had already happened. He needed to get to the lab before he ended up standing guard at the door or something. 

His first one-on-two interaction with them and his animal hindbrain had already latched onto them. Sighing, Hank left his glasses on the side table and turned heel. 

The farther away he moved, the louder the voice in his head insisted that he turn around and take them with him, to keep them close: safe. They were safe, he told it, they were tucked away, in his bed, on the third floor of the west wing, where they belonged. Where they didn’t belong was in a basement. They had no business being in _any_ lab--not even his. Not unless it was their choice to be there. 

The thought process, he could admit, was a little messed up--wonky--to want his cubs in their nest, in his den, yet ban them from his territory. But a line needed to be drawn somewhere in his moral sand, even if it was a little crooked.

That was what he told himself as he stepped across the cold tile to sit in his customary chair.

It didn’t help.

* * *

The cold shower was in two parts. The first part was an incentive to get out faster. The second part was that it helped keep him awake. Alex stumbled out of the shower, shivering, and quickly cocooned himself in a towel. He allowed himself a few seconds of it’s warmth before tossing it aside and got dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. 

Then he was out the door, down the stairs, and stepping into the kitchen; strangely grateful that the old servant’s halls didn’t cross paths with the ‘master’s’ living space. He felt like he was walking in the walls, that space between plaster, where the electrical wires and support beams lived. The first few times he’d used the servant’s halls instead of the main halls, it’d felt weird, like he was trespassing on a graveyard at night. But now, it was nice to have the option of avoiding everyone in the dining room.

Scavenging for food in the manor was one of the easiest things in the world. True, there wasn’t a guarantee that you’d find what you originally went looking for because someone had already laid claim to it. Or the mutant who cooked it wasn’t willing to share but there was always something else to be had.

Charles made sure of it. 

But Alex wasn’t looking for anything special, just things that were high protein and low salt. He dug through the leftovers, skipping everything that had a name on it, throwing a hodgepodge of things together, and put them on a tray. Kicking the fridge closed, Alex turned to the cabinets. This night couldn’t get any more stressful that it already was so, with a general ‘fuck it’ attitude, he reached for the cabinet that Logan stashed his beer in--the man had done the work to turn it into a miniature ice box. 

He’ll owe him one the next time they go into town together.

When he got down to the lab, he found it just as he always found it: organized to within an inch of its life. Hank had several tables, some barren and empty, some cluttered with projects; all of which bore signs of progress. The floors gleamed, clean enough to eat off of. It looked near identical to any other lab he’d seen; beakers here, microscopes there. The metal cabinets along the wall, and their neighbors, Mrs. Fridge, and Sir Incubator. 

But unlike the other labs, Hank’s had personality; some of his beakers were stained from past experiments, tinting the glass various colors, his lab coat hung by the door, breast pocket full of pens. The glazed crucible had a small crack in it. Hanging on the wall, next to the corkboard, was a laminated poster of the periodic table. Instead of a chalkboard, he had a chalkboard _wall_ , filled with complicated equations and little notes written in the margins.

“What can I move?” Alex asked, keeping a careful distance from Hank’s desk. Unsurprisingly, Hank had chosen to hunch over his ‘main base’, lurking like a gargoyle over his church. It was where he came up with his ideas, where he tinkered, before judging if the project was important enough for its own table or if it should be condemned to the trash: the realm of Unwanted Things.

Hank turned a blank stare to the things littering his desk, seeing but not truly comprehending. His eyes used to be blue, pale but warm, but now they flip flopped between every mixture of copper and animal gold, depending on the light. Honestly, it’s beautiful. Alex watched as those eyes swept along the detritus of Hank’s desk and stayed where he was. This was not the stillness of an ambush predator, but it was still a coiled spring. This was the stillness of the mental tug-of-war between Hank and Beast. And Beast, more often than not, broke down Hank’s thought process until he was trapped within the survival ultimatum of fight, flight, or fuck. 

At least that’s what Alex got out of it that one time Hank had tried to explain. It was rare that he was pushed far enough to go through all three in a single night, but Hank’s already run; so, really, it could go either way between fight or fuck.

A shiver worked its way down Alex’s spine.

“There are words,” Hank snarled, voice deep and surprisingly throaty, “lots of words. But I can’t put them in the correct order.”

“Shitty,” Alex said, trying not to sink to the floor under the heavy crash of relief. To hear Hank finally break from the blank nothingness of before was indescribable, “but I can’t say I’m surprised. You’ve got, what, seven languages rattling around up there.”

Hank blinked. “Eight.”

And then, without warning, he suddenly exploded with an anguished roar; sweeping the desk clean with a single broad sweep of his arm, sending papers into the air and glass beakers to shatter against the floor. Hank was left standing with his shoulders hunched, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

The fine hair on the back of Alex’s neck stood on end. It was the first of the red flags that Common Sense raised. But he ignored it and stepped around Hank to put the tray on the desk. 

“You need to eat something.” Alex said, giving the beer bottle a solid flick. Instead of listening, Hank roared again, stalking over to one of the empty tables and threw it across the lab. It arched too high, colliding with the ceiling and light fixtures, before crashing down with a bang. Alex sat back, arms crossed, and watched Hank throw two more tables and punch the whiteboard wall. 

When Hank turned, his eyes locked on Alex.

Poets and authors liked to impress upon people the image of a rabid animal with glazed eyes. That was not what happened. Every feral mutant at the school--Victor, Logan, Hank, April, and Jenny--were usually high on painkillers before their eyes glazed over. When they lost themselves, their eyes didn’t change. At least, not in the ways that the poets and authors would have you believe. They stayed clear, focused, but there was a certain loss of humanity, much like trying to compare a human’s gaze to a wolf’s. Intelligent but different.

Alex was man enough to admit, even if just to himself, that there was something wrong with him. The thought of Hank unleashed, uncensored-- _wild_ \--did things to him. Alex bit his lip and tried to breathe evenly, tried to ignore the slow building arousal in his gut. 

He’s always preferred it harder than Hank was willing to give it to him, be it during training or sex, whether it be his emotions, his words, or his body. And he understood that Hank was afraid of hurting him--he _got that_ , he did--but with Beast in the driver’s seat, the hesitation and the fear disappeared.

Alex wasn’t going to deny that Hank could make him bleed in painful ways, but he couldn’t _hurt_ him. It was the only thing in the world that Alex had any real faith in. It’s addicting to have Hank’s raw strength bear down on him, to be trapped and yet utterly safe; to _know_ , that even half-way out of his mind, if Alex so much as made the wrong sound--whined too high or grunted to painfully--Hank would let him go.

For a long, drawn out moment, they stared each other down.

Neither moved. 

Neither flinched.

But then Alex pulled the trigger with a grin, an excited baring of teeth. Hank snarled and then charged, clearing the tables between them as if they weren't there. Diving away from the table, Alex got taken down in a tangle of limbs and grunts, a bright flare of pain licked at his shoulder where it connected with the tile. Hank’s momentum rolled them a few times, and his body made its protests known; the cuts and bruises and sore muscle from the mission that had quieted, screamed anew, unhappy with taking further abuse. They came to a stop with Alex on his back, Hank straddling him, fist raised. 

Only for it to be brought down like a guillotine, fast, hard, remorseless. Alex twisted, threw himself sideways, hips bucking with the motion but doing nothing to shift Hank’s solid weight from his body. There was the soft, feather-light brush of displaced air and the harsh cracking sound of breaking tile next to his ear. He let himself roll flat on his back again, head coming to rest in the small crater, shattered lines of ceramic blooming from his skull like a halo, arms coming up to shield his face as Hank’s next blow sought him out. 

Alex laid there and took it, let Hank get a few more hits in, trying not to let the force of them slam his arms into his own face. His window came not because Hank made a mistake but because Alex blew a hole in the wall. Planting his feet, he thrust his hips up as hard as he could and, at the same time, grabbed Hank’s hips and pushed him up towards the ceiling, bouncing him just enough. Within the precious, small amount of space he’d made, Alex was able to get his knees curled towards his chest, and forced Hank’s legs to spread wider when he landed on Alex’s shins. His elbow connected with Hank’s jaw, using the force to throw them into another roll; out from under Hank’s weight, Alex lashed out with a foot, catching his hip, and scrambled up and away before Hank could grab him again.

Hank sprang up like a pouncing cat, elastic spine turning his awkward launch into a graceful landing, touching down like a dancer; snarling, lip curled to expose sharp fangs, golden eyes narrowed to thin slits. And came for him again. Alex danced backwards, trading some blows, ducking others, leading Hank away from the table and the tray of food: into a more open space.

An arena of their own, an open-ended cage.

Fighting was dancing, Alex wasn’t going to let anyone tell him differently, and mastering the steps to this one had been a matter of trial and error. He’d broken skin learning when to dodge, how to move, what hits he could take and which ones he couldn’t. Had to learn that if he wanted to get inside Hank’s guard, then he had to be fast enough to get back out. As Alex gave ground, Hank threw himself forward, using his bulk as a means to overwhelm, alternating between flying fists and racking claws. The brutality of it hiding the careful calculations underneath; watching, assessing--tracking--taking careful note of how Alex moved, and planned accordingly. 

Alex caught a fist, aimed at his ribs, with an elbow and barely felt it, only to dodge the next one and watch a table crumple. The low heat in his gut amped a little higher, sweat beading against his brow. Hank’s next swing went wide, too much power in the wind-up, frustration burning too hot in the twist of his body. Alex ducked and came in low, took the chance to lash out and was rewarded for his daring; landing two hits before quickly retreating even as Hank reversed his flow to backhand him. 

Round and round they circled the lab, keeping well away from the various projects, yet never hesitating to throw each other against the empty tables; sharp edges digging painfully into sore backs and aching ribs. Fatigue dragged at Alex but he refused to slow, pushing himself to keep pace. It was a double-edged sword; on one hand, if he got pinned he wouldn’t have the strength to buck Hank off again, to keep fighting, but on the other hand, he couldn’t deny the allure of submission, of letting Hank press bruises into his neck, of letting him tear him apart, until his body felt like pulled taffy.

He couldn’t ignore the dark thrill of being in danger, without the threat of coming to harm. And being unable to do anything about it, short of vaporizing him; too exhausted to put up a fight yet still strong enough to struggle. 

Hank’s nostrils flared, pupils dilating, and Alex knew he’d smelled his arousal. He swallowed hard but kept his fists up and elbows in. A protective cage. He almost dropped it when Hank growled, using a different cadence from the ones previous--warmer, somehow, thicker and richer. Inviting. Alex’s heart tripped over itself as that sound wrapped around his ears and curled warmth down his spine. It made him twitch in his pants.

“That’s cheating.” Alex wheezed, feeling like he’d been gut punched.

The first time he’d heard Beast’s mating call, Hank had pressed it into the soft skin beneath his ear. He’d gotten hard so fast his knees had given out, not that it mattered since Hank had bent him over the edge of the bed. 

Licking his lips, Alex mimicked the sound.

It’s a blur of motion, viper quick and disorienting enough that Alex lost track of where his body was in space, but, somehow, he found himself on the ground, face pressed into the cold tiles. Hank’s paw kept both wrists trapped against the small of his back while the other landed against the nape of his neck, heavy and warm, the leathery pads of his fingertips were dry and dragged against the damp sweat clinging to Alex’s skin. 

God, Hank had so many textures to him. The entire underside of his hand was thick skinned, butter-soft leather where the callouses would sit, yet smooth like a well oiled riding jacket. His fur went from long and thick as it imitated hair to short and smooth like a horse’s pelt but rabbit soft along the inside of his thighs, his chest and down his stomach. The transition from one to the other was so smooth that a person wouldn’t be able to tell without touching him.

The hand on his neck squeezed before dragging him backwards, slowly enough that Alex could get his knees under him, but then Hank kept pulling until they were tucked against his chest, forcibly holding his hips in the air. It shouldn’t be as sexy as it is. Being manhandled into presenting for him. But when Hank pressed forward, fitting his heavy cock against his ass, Alex bit his lip to keep the groan locked inside his throat. Excitement and anticipation running laps between his guts and making his toes want to dig into the tiles and press back--against Hank’s hips, against the controlled strength of his hold.

This time, it was Alex who called for Hank. 

He answered beautifully, draping himself over Alex’s back, settling his weight against him--let him _feel_ the wall of muscle he made; broad lines and dense shadows--to mouth at his ear. Hank’s chest vibrated as he rumbled, a sharp-edged purring, tongue tracing along the shell of Alex’s ear. He liked to fantasize that those sounds were Beast trying to talk dirty to him, whispering all the filthy things he’d do to him, tell him exactly what he _wanted_ to do to him, whether realistically possible or not. 

_“Gonna fuck you until you can’t feel your legs, make you scream so loud that Charles will have to erase everyone’s memories just to let you keep some dignity. And you would let me, wouldn’t you, Alex? You’d scream for me.”_

_“I want to tie you to a bed, keep you there all day, bring you to the edge again and again without letting you come. Know why? Because that’s not what you’d be there for. You’d be there for my entertainment, for my enjoyment. But don’t worry, baby, you’d get yours, just not until I’m done with you.”_

_“I want to see you lose control. And I want to be the one to break it.”_

Alex shivered and pressed back against him, hips rolling impatiently. Hank let go of his neck, reaching around, instead, to get at his chest. If Alex wasn’t immune to heat, then Hank’s hand would’ve felt like a brand, reaching into his flesh, through the thin cotton of his shirt, to scorch his bones. That brand dragged down to his ribs, further to his belly, and then further, still, past the jut of his hip bones to squeeze the bulge in his sweatpants. Alex’s breath stuttered and hitched, back bowing as he reflexively pushed forward into the pressure of Hank’s hand, then back again against his groin; rocking--caught--between the two.

Hank’s mouth turned sharp, teeth dragging, clamping down on Alex’s ear lobe, sucking it into his mouth to tug and worry at it before letting go. His clever tongue flicked and fluttered along the whorling lines of Alex’s ear; retreating to conquered territory to pant against the wet skin whenever Alex jerked or moaned. Between Hank’s hand, rubbing and squeezing in equal measure if not in force, and his mouth, Alex’s brain doesn’t know what sensation to focus on. Leaving him in a sort of limbo; suspended, only allowed to feel and squirm and pant, completely at Hank’s mercy. Drying out an already dry throat.

Finally bored of molesting his ear, Hank’s mouth trailed down to his jaw, planting nipping kisses along the slope, following it, not to his mouth, but to the curved plains of his neck, licking roughly to chase the salt of his sweat. Alex never thought his neck to be the most sensitive place on his body but when Hank’s teeth finally-- _finally_ \--sink into the side of his throat, pressing those coveted bruises into the skin, he’s forced to reevaluate. It felt like some cosmic force, some holy sex god, hooked their finger around the cord that connected straight to his dick, and plucked. A low, drawn out ‘uhh’ got dragged out of his throat, eyes squeezed shut, and hips stuttering with the sudden flood of sparks.

The sound must do something for Hank because he suddenly groped Alex a little harder, growled approvingly, and dragged the sweatpants against tender skin. It gave Alex a delicious hurt to chase, and with each grind forward, the dampness grew as he leaked. Hank shoved up against him, moving like an ocean wave, forceful enough that you couldn’t get away--the only option was to ride it to shore. But Alex never got to shore, Hank’s teeth kept him firmly within his depths, unable to sink or swim. All he could do was float.

No one at the school knew, not even the Professor, but Alex had been born in Hawaii. Had spent the first few tender years of his life around the ocean. He knew how dangerous it was to stay underwater, at the current’s mercy.

Alex twisted and tugged against Hank’s grip, suddenly needing to touch him, needed to grab a fist full of blue fur and tug. His fingers claw at Hank’s shirt, trying to grab what he can, unaware that he’s digging at Beast’s soft under belly until it’s too late. Hank’s hold suddenly went from merely keeping him still, to pinning him against the floor; weight added threateningly on his throat as Hank snarled at him. Damn if it threatened him though. That cosmic force was back, playing Mozart along that string. Moaning, the knot in his stomach tightening, Alex dug his nails in and ground back against Hank’s hips.

Hank’s touch took him higher and higher, pulled him tighter and tighter, left him breathless and moaning, made him burn brighter as his plasma rose, and he was close enough that he could taste it but then it stopped. When Hank took his hand away, he was left stalling in mid-flight, in that gut wrenching moment of weightlessness just before gravity took you down, and Alex swore that he might actually die--heartlessly left thrusting against empty air, thrashing, teeth grit with mounting frustration.

“Hank, you bastard!” he did not sob, but it was close.

Hank crooned at him, gentled him, dragged his hand up under his shirt, the tough pads of his fingertips idling scratching against his stomach, up to his heaving chest, where he flatted his hand like he was trying to cradle Alex’s racing heart; keep it from jumping out of his body. With the new hold, he lifted them upright onto their knees, powerful jaws clamping down for a secure grip. The casual show of strength had Alex’s breath hitching, catching almost like a gasp in his throat, as Hank settled back, leaning far enough that Alex could feel the muscles in his abs tightening. Reclining into an invisible chair. Their height difference forced Alex to stretch the long lines of his body to their limits, up and back, to lean against Hank and use him as a wall. Held in place without the slightest bit of leverage.

Nor did he have the room to fidget--neatly maneuvered into a position where all he could do was sit still and take what he was given--as Hank pet his chest, brushing over his nipples before trailing down his stomach, following the dips and rises of his abs as carefully as a cartographer with a new map. As soon as he reached the flat plane between his hip bones, Hank dragged his hand back up to pluck at Alex’s nipples. It kept his hand infuriatingly well away from Alex’s pants as he was taken away from the edge, given time to come down, the knot loosening but never allowed to unravel. 

But that didn’t stop Hank from seeking his own pleasure; hips still moving against him in that devastating tidal wave, breath huffing against Alex’s ear, and his tongue pressed against his hammering pulse. Alex fought to get his arms free, that itch to touch still riding high in his blood, whining pleadingly. Unsurprisingly, Hank let go. Even though he asked for it, the sudden freedom made Alex fumble, hands landing everywhere and yet nowhere; Hank’s thigh, his wrist, in his hair, the back of his neck, before the synapses of his brain manage to board the same train and he gets them behind himself again.

Alex groaned disparagingly because _of course_ Hank’s wearing slacks. His beloved idiot probably never planned to sleep tonight--which was fine, really, Hank neglected himself all the time, he knew his limits, he wasn’t going to go overboard. But Alex didn’t have the patience to deal with hooks and a jigger button when he _couldn’t see them_ , while Hank tortured him, pinching and twisting his nipples.

Alex pawed at the straining fabric, growling at it as he squeezed Hank through his pants, feeling those powerful hips finally stutter as Hank pressed an answering groan into his neck. And then, Hank’s touch left him, going, instead, to those _fucking hooks_. Even with claws and thicker fingers, he made quick work of it.

Hands clumsy with need, Alex batted Hank away as soon as the fastenings were undone, diving in to wrap awkwardly around Hank’s cock. It was Hank’s turn to whine, thrusting harder, no longer seeking a simple, low-level pleasure, but, now, with a goal, even as he dragged his claws down Alex’s stomach. 

Alex tensed, hissing, the slight pain enough to get the fire going again, “That’s it,” he groaned, back arching as much as he could, “Good boy, like you mean it.” and gave Hank a squeezing twist, relishing in the soft warmth of his skin, the hot, heavy weight of him in his hand, cockhead wet and weeping. Alex spread it along the length of him as he stroked. He watched the fur on Hank’s arms stand on end, listened to his hitching breaths and stuttering, growling, groans, and paid rapt attention to the tensing muscle in his shoulders and stomach, using them as his guide to take him to the edge.

He was so focused on it that he jolted when Hank, very deliberately, dragged his claws over his inner thighs, towards his groin, applying steady pressure the further up he went. Alex’s head fell back with a sound he would later deny making, spreading his legs wider, to Hank’s approving purring. 

Suddenly Hank pushed him forward, face down on the tile again, but this time, Hank’s teeth weren’t in his neck. Alex caught himself, braced on hands and knees. Hank, snarling behind him, yanked Alex’s pants down to his knees, baring him to the cool air of the lab. Hank’s breath was hot, humid, when he lowered himself, fast enough that Alex doesn’t have time to brace himself for the sensation of _soft, wet, warm_ that leaves him sobbing, back arching.

Hank licked at Alex with his tongue pressed flat and incessant--openly drooling on him. The possibility that it might be the best Alex was going to get in terms of lube made something deeply masochistic in him light up and stand at eager attention. On the next sweep, Hank managed to curl his tongue just enough to tug against his rim. Alex went down to his elbows, face buried against his arms, with a choked gasp, shoulders hunching as he pressed back. Moaning without shame or censor.

The only warning he got was Hank’s tightening grip, and then his tongue was pressing into Alex, holding him steady as he twisted and howled. He worked at him with the same intensity that he worked on anything, opening him up until Alex was loose and wet enough to take the first finger. He’d never been more thankful in his life than the night they’d discovered that Hank’s claws were retractable like a cat’s. If he had to give up a nice finger fucking, he would’ve, but he knew himself enough to admit that he would’ve missed it. Would’ve mourned the loss of the way Hank pressed in with enough force that Alex knew he was eager for it too. Would’ve missed the way Hank could tear him apart, turn him into a pile of happy boneless goo, before sliding into him to wring out another orgasm.

Alex closed his eyes and basked in the pleasurable sparks and the slight burn of being stretched, let himself jerk and twitch, gasping when Hank added another. He crooked and twisted his fingers, deliberately tugging on Alex’s rim but kept away from his prostate, even as he continued licking around his probing fingers to keep him wet. When he felt a third finger nudge at him, Alex almost kicked him.

“No, don't!” he shouted, “Just two. Hank, please, just two!” but Hank didn’t stop, scissoring his fingers to test the give of the muscle despite Alex’s futile attempts to get away from it. Hank always went up to three--without fail--even though Alex doesn’t need nor want it. Hank’s hands were big and thick with muscle, built to grab. His pinky was wider than Alex’s thumb. Three fingers felt like overkill, loosened him too much and denied him the burn of a good stretch. Two was infinitely better because it wasn’t quite enough. With two, the ache afterwards stayed with him longer, he could be laying in bed and flex his leg and feel the reminder of it.

But Hank wasn’t stopping and it took Alex a moment to scrap his melted brain off the tile to remember why. Took him an embarrassing long time to remember that those eight languages didn’t count for jack right now. It was the hidden ninth that would get him what he wanted. Alex snarled, deep in the back of his nose, and felt Hank freeze. He panted, moist breath sawing harshly at his throat, a drop of sweat slid down his nose and hung there. He ignored the strange itchy tickling sensation, mind scrambling in the small reprieve, trying to think of the correct noise to make. Hank might stop entirely if he whined. He’ll definitely stop if Alex snarled again, and he couldn’t purr because he simply wasn’t capable of rolling his tongue like that. In the end, Hank made the decision for him.

He got up and shuffled away.

“Fuck, no, Hank get back here! I didn’t mean it like that!” It was close enough to a panicked shout that Hank winced, sensitive ears pinning back. Alex was up on his knees, half-turned to try and follow him, the beginnings of their mating call building in his throat, when Hank bared his teeth at him over one broad shoulder. Alex sat, stunned, as Hank dug through his desk, before coming up with a tube of lube, that Alex didn’t know he had. 

The sudden emotional whiplash made his brain stall. The fear of having accidently told Hank that he didn’t want him mixed with the relief at seeing the lube, proof that he hadn’t, gave a weird sense of clarity, just enough to question, _‘Why does he have that in here?’_

But the magnificent picture Hank made, standing there, was enough to get it moving again. Hank’s shirt was damp with sweat and rumpled, hitched high and clinging to him; slacks undone, cock out--flushed a light purple and wet. For a second, Alex lost himself in the sight of Hank’s chest expanding with each breath, solid shoulders rising and falling, but then Hank was stepping towards him again, and Alex hurried to kick his sweatpants off.

He only managed to get one leg completely free before Hank’s guiding him backwards with a hand on his chest, keeping him firmly on his back. He wasn’t looming over him--mostly because Hank didn’t know how to loom over anybody--but it was close enough that Alex swallowed, guts clenching, toes flexing. Alex was reaching for him before he could give his body the command, needing to kiss him, to draw him in and breathe the same air. Hank let him, bending down and rumbling deep in his chest: purring, nipping at Alex’s bottom lip before licking into his mouth. 

Alex rose to meet him, biting at Hank’s lip, tongue pushing back against his invading tongue. Or, at least, he tried to. But Hank wasn’t taking the bait anymore, he kept it infuriating slow, took his time with Alex, running his tongue along the roof of his mouth, flicking against the back of his teeth. The urgency of before was suddenly banked and pushed aside, traded in for something thorough and gentle. It took Alex a full minute before he realized that Hank was trying to be soothing and reassuring, a steady presence, grip steady where he was holding Alex’s hip. Apologizing for pushing him far enough that he felt...what? Scared? Threatened?...the need to snarl at him.

It made Alex huff, “Yeah, ain’t you sweet?” legs coming up to wrap around Hank and squeezing; using it to help him thrust up against Hank’s stomach, “C’mon, baby, I really need you to fuck me, here. You’re kinda killing me.”

Of course, Hank ignored him, kissing Alex once more, slow and long and luxurious, before moving on and taking the opportunity to give attention to his neck. He tried the mating call again, and while Hank answered him, that warmth curling around his ear and making him twitch, it didn’t light a fire under Hank’s skin. 

“Goddamn it, Hank.” Alex mumbled. Forced to swallow his pride, Alex bared his neck and mewled, hands clenching tight against Hank’s back and pulling close while he let his legs fall open, feet braced against the floor. It’s the best he could do in terms of presenting while he’s on his back.

Hank’s teeth latch onto the column of his throat again, sending Flight of the Bumblebee to places classical music did not belong, even as slicked fingers press into him, punching out whatever air remained in his lungs. This time, the leathered pads of Hank’s fingers pressed against Alex’s prostate, rubbing against it firmly. Through the sudden flood of intense pleasure, Alex was vaguely aware that he was clawing at Hank’s back, chest stuttering with his gasps, moans thickening, growing throaty as he bucked, heels digging into the cold tiles in search of a solid grip. Hank pressed and pet at the soft wetness of him, purring and crooning at him, and Alex knew the bastard was taking more than one form of pleasure from this. 

Alex’s chest heaved, thighs trembling, and hips jerking sporadically as Hank played with him. Alex got his hands under Hank’s shirt to feel the shift of muscle. Dear god was there anything more beautiful than Hank’s back? His shoulders? Hank pressed against his prostate one more time before retreating, fingers purposefully dragging against Alex’s rim and tearing a small hurt noise from him. His nails claw down Hank’s back to grab at his waist and anchor there. Here, his fur was mid-transition from long to short, somewhere in the middle.

Alex tugged and pulled at Hank as he pressed in; greedy for him, too keyed up after everything to allow Hank to be gentle with him any longer. But Hank fought him on it despite the desperate punched out sound that Alex didn’t bother holding back, refusing to rush the slick slide of joining bodies; the force of it curling Alex up around Hank, head coming off the floor, thighs squeezing. When he’s fully seated, Hank waits for him, shivering with the effort of staying still, as Alex fell back down. But then he grabbed Alex’s thigh and hitched it higher over his hip and started moving with a desperate conviction, rough and wild, hips shoving and stuttering, growling and moaning in turns, throaty and chocolate dark, drowning out Alex’s own gasps.

The careful control was gone, seared away from Hank’s mind, leaving only this animal need to fuck, and Alex relished it; using the hold he had on Hank’s hips to encourage him deeper, harder; dug his nails in like a spur. Hank’s rhythm faltered at the sudden bite, grunting before driving into Alex with a single minded focus, powerful jaws clamping down hard--biting, for the first time. The bright spark of pain had Alex shouting, back jolting off the floor, arching sharply but not very high, as Hank bore down on him; threatening to suffocate him with his bulk pressing against his chest. 

And wasn’t it amazing and wonderful and absolutely terrifying that Hank didn’t seem to care about the heat building in Alex’s body? Their sweat was starting to evaporate, little wisps of steam that caught along the fine line at the edges of the eye, adding a hint of humidity to the air between them. If anything, Hank was pressing closer, nose buried behind Alex’s ear, tongue, once again, firmly against his neck to feel his hammering pulse, claws digging into the meat of his thigh, while the other kept him suspended above Alex.

Pressed chest to chest with Hank’s shirt rucked up, Alex could feel Hank’s abs flex and tense against his cock where it was trapped between their bodies; damp fur making the glide silky one way but rough the other--overwhelmed both inside and out--guts clenching, and pulling raw animals sounds from Alex’s throat. Hotter and hotter he burned, mind blanking out bit by bit, until the only thing his brain could process was pleasure and heat and teeth and bright lights. 

Alex’s plasma licked at the surface, highlighting the negative spaces in his skeleton--along his arms and ribcage, behind his eyes and inside his mouth--balls drawing up tight and then he was coming, body clenching around Hank with brutal force. It scorched his brain, scraped it clean, and took him someplace warm and bright, where he wasn’t allowed to feel anything but pleasure and the satisfying release of built up tension. 

Pulled taffy.

Vaguely, he was aware that his toes had curled, thighs tightening and trembling around Hank’s hips, fingers pulling on his fur, that his throat was open to let him shout. But it was secondary information. 

Hank fucked him through it, made it last just a little longer with each strike to his abused prostate. Alex came back to himself as Hank’s growling took on higher pitch, whining and desperate and hurt like he was begging. It took him a moment to realize that that was exactly what he was doing. Begging.

Alex forced his fingers to uncurl, aching from how hard he’d been holding on, to bring them up to cradle the back of Hank’s head, making low encouraging sounds at him. He wasn’t quite oversensitive when Hank found his own end but it was a close thing, nerve endings whimpering and crying that enough was enough. Hank’s hips lost their rhythm, jerking in sporadic pulses before he buried himself deep and went still; groaning around Alex’s throat.

Alex gentled him down from his high, hands running soothingly along his back, his bicep, threading his fingers through his hair and scratching at his scalp, cooing at him, doing his best imitation of a reassuring growl. Hank pants, limbs shaking with fine tremors from exertion, but he didn’t move, didn’t allow himself to collapse one way or the other. And Alex didn’t push him. He simply pet his blue and black fur, slowly worked through the knots and let him come back to himself in his own time.

* * *

Hank came back to himself in quiet stages. Alex’s slow petting came first, transitioning from _‘pack contact’_ to _‘repetitive, calming touch.’_ His scent changed next, the animalist recognition of _‘mate, home, protect, safe’_ lost the deeper context to become _‘Alex Summers, boyfriend.’_ The change hurt more than it should; Hank had to let go of Alex’s neck to grit his teeth against the sharp pain of it, swallowing hard and breathing deeply.

When he felt solid enough, Hank pushed himself up and away.

“Hey.” Alex said, voice ruined, low and scratchy, it made satisfaction curl in Hank’s chest to know that he did that, to know that Alex _let_ him do that.

“Hey.” Hank said, eyes racking over Alex, cataloging the mess. He looked good, there was no denying that. Blond hair sticking up at odd angles, flush still high on his face, his chest, the blush of broken capillaries where Hank’s teeth had latched on, skin still damp as the sweat cooled, cum painting along his abs, on his shirt, and leaking out of his body. Alex was beautiful like this: the red to Hank’s blue. Hank plucked at Alex’s shirt with a wince, “Sorry.” 

He wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for not giving him time enough to undress or for being feral enough not to notice that they’d stained another shirt. Alex smirked, hands dragging up Hank’s torso, over his chest, to grab at his shirt collar and used it to tug him down.

“You’re so fucking sexy when you get bossy in bed, y’know that?” He should be used to such comments, he really should, but it still made him blush. He went down to the ground with a groan, face hidden behind his hands, ears pinned with embarrassment, and rolled away from Alex even as he reached out to grab the back of Hank’s shirt, chuckling at him. Bastard.

“Luke and Reagan.” Hank said, apropos of nothing. 

As expected, confused silence greeted him. 

“....What?”

“The boys. Their names. Luke and Reagan.”

“You mean the Beastlings?”

Hank rolled back over, “Beastlings?” he asked, eyebrow raised, tone drier than a desert.

“Cubs? Kittens? Pups?” Alex asked. Hank tried not to wince, having used ‘cubs’ himself.

“Children.” he deadpanned and waited for Alex to play Connect the Dots and come to the realization that he was being an asshole again, taking away their humanity by labeling them as ‘other.’ But what came out of Alex’s mouth wasn’t one of his sincere, if seemingly half-hearted, apologies.

Instead he said, “You can’t name him after Skywalker.” and had the gall to look offended.

Hank felt his eye twitch, “Am I supposed to name them Remus and Romulus, then? Horace, perhaps?” 

“...Like that Egyptian bird thing?”

“No,” Hank sighed, “As in ‘Horatius.’ ‘Horace’ was a nickname, like how ‘Henry’ turns into ‘Hank’.”

“‘ _And how can a man die better_

_Than facing fearful odds_

_For the ashes of his fathers_

_And the temples of his gods.’_ That Horatius?” Alex asked. 

Hank propped himself up on his elbow to look down at Alex, “You’ve read ‘ _Lays of Ancient Rome’_?”

“Not sure how anyone could live in this house and not be suckered into reading literally _anything_ pertaining to Rome.”

Hank shrugged, “Granted. But I meant ‘Horatius’ as in Quintus Horatius Flaccus. He was the leading Roman lyric poet during the time of Augustus.”

Alex raised an eyebrow, slow, as if the longer it took to finish the motion, the more likely it was that the universe would rewind and keep Hank’s mouth shut. Hank grinned, happy to disabuse him of the notion.

“ _‘Leuconoë, don’t ask, we never know, what fate the gods grant us, whether your fate or mine, don’t waste your time on Babylonian, futile, calculations. How much better to suffer what happens, whether Jupiter gives us more winters or this is the last one, one debilitating the Tyrrhenian Sea on opposing cliffs. Be wise, and mix the wine, since time is short: limit that far-reaching hope. The envious moment is flying now, now, while we’re speaking: Seize the day, place in the hours that come as little faith as you can.’_ ”

Alex groaned disparagingly and closed his eyes, “Jesus Christ. No. Just, no.” 

“Fine. Luke and Reagan, final answer.” Hank said. 

“ _Why?!_ ” Alex cried, flinging his arm out.

“After Loukas Notaras, the last Megas Doux of the Byzantine Empire, and Charles Tate Regan, a British ichthyologist.”

“I suddenly have so many questions. What the hell is a ‘Megas Doux?’ Ichthyology? Since when do you care about the Byzantine Empire? You’re a scientist, not a historian.”

Hank sighed. Yes, great pillow talk. 

They were a complete mess, cum drying on clothes and skin, dicks limp, pants down, Alex was going to walk away with very impressive bruises and a few claw marks that Hank was trying not to feel guilty about, if only because he knew that Alex wanted them there. And here they were, talking baby names.

“‘Megas Doux’ translates to ‘grand duke.’ Ichthyology is the study of fish. And the Byzantine Empire was actually pretty interesting. Did you know that their military used an early version of napalm? They called it ‘Greek Fire.’"

Alex covered his face with his hands, digging his palms into his eyes. Hank blinked, ears perked forward, as the mounting frustration in Alex’s body tensed his muscles, “No,” he grit out, “I didn’t know that.”

“I do have hobbies, Alex.”

“I know! It’s just...fuck! You never share them. I have no idea what you research in your free time or why. I don’t know the names of any of the scientists or philosophers you admire, or if you admire any of them at all, or why you would admire them. I don’t know how far you’ve stuck your nose in ancient history or why you care about the study of fish, of all things.”

Hank bit his lip, understanding that he’d stepped on a landmine but not knowing how far the force would throw him. What did it matter what he found interesting? No one had ever asked, so he’d never told them. Why bother his friends with something they clearly had no interest in? He knew they didn’t care about history, ancient or otherwise, didn’t understand the beauty to be found in numbers and complex calculations, didn’t care about aviation past the knowledge of how to fly the Blackbird, so why was Alex suddenly getting frustrated over it?

Alex suddenly surged into action: quickly striped his clothes off and then wrestled Hank out of his.

“Alex?”

“So, we’re dads now.” he said, making himself comfortable between Hank’s thighs, “Not gonna have a lot of time for sex anymore.” 

The tender parts of Hank’s heart went all warm and gooey, swelling enough to hurt at how easily Alex inserted himself into it all, as if it was the most obvious conclusion to come to. Not a moment of hesitation. 2 plus 2 was four. Objects at a distance appeared cloudy and had a blue tint to them because of atmospheric perspective. Hank’s blood was used to make 16 test tube babies, so, we’re dads now. As if Hank’s problems were his problems. As if their friendship didn’t start out as more enemy than friend. 

It wasn’t something Hank thought would ever happen--any of it--he never thought he’d be a parent and he definitely never thought Alex would stick around for it. Not to say that he wasn’t a loyal person but raising a single child, let alone two, was kind of a big deal. It was enough to make him want to run--deflect--keep everything light and inconsequential, to keep it from growing too big, too fast. 

Alex’s breath huffed, warm and humid against Hank’s spent cock. It felt good in the abstract, the way a hot compress felt good against your neck.

“Or for my experiments.” Hank said, growling when Alex bit his thigh, “But on a more serious note, I think you should drink something before we continue this.”

“Are you really,” Alex’s eyes flicked up to his face incredulously, “saying ‘No’ to a blowjob?”

“I honestly don’t know how you’re awake, right now. Not after going on the Brotherhood mission, fighting humans, coming home, fighting me, and letting me fuck you. Your energy reserves do not account for all this.”

“I’m good, Bozo. I know how to survive a sleepless night.”

“Okay, but I still want you to drink something to rehydrate. Otherwise, yes, I will, in fact, say ‘No’ to a blowjob.” 

“Fine. I’ll drink something as long as you eat.” Alex said.

“Fine.” 

“Fine!”


End file.
